


languages of love

by the_ragnarok



Series: cat!Jon [9]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aftercare, Canon Asexual Character, M/M, Martin Blackwood's Poetry, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24376015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: Ways to say "I love you". Or, five times Jon and Martin didn't touch, and one time they did.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Series: cat!Jon [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622008
Comments: 92
Kudos: 493





	1. Chapter 1

Martin's running a hand down Jon's back, marveling at the sleek musculature there, when Jon abruptly stiffens and pulls away. Martin closes his eyes and breathes, keeping his shoulders down, his hands unclenched. He's fine. They're fine.

It's not the first time, but it's still a faint surprise that instead of turning away and going to sleep, Jon fixes his bright eyes on Martin. "What do you need?" Jon's voice brooks no argument.

 _You._ Martin struggles with his own petulant neediness. He forces himself to feel, to notice. "Tea?" He feels silly, asking for that. As if tea could fix everything, or anything. When Jon gets off the bed, Martin almost withdraws that request, feeling bereft with the physical distance between them.

Jon comes back quickly, though, holding a steaming mug of the Darjeeling Martin prefers, sweetened to his tastes. Martin takes the mug and holds it, letting it warm his hands. Jon sits down cross-legged on the chair next to the sofa, all of him neatly tucked into the meager space of the chair. "Is it okay?" Jon inquires, a moment later. For all they're not touching, his attention on Martin feels like a caress.

Martin closes his eyes and sips his tea. "Thank you," he says. "It's good."


	2. Chapter 2

"And I wanted to go to the munch on Tuesday," Martin says, looking at his calendar, "so unless you're coming with me, which I'm guessing you're not, I don't know if I can see you before Friday. I suppose I could skip it this once...."

"Maybe," Jon says, picking the words slowly, "Maybe I could. Come with you, I mean."

For a moment, Martin stares, wondering whether Jon's been replaced by a body snatcher. Martin must have extended a dozen invitations asking Jon to come to the munch with him. They were all refused. "Wait. Are you sure? Did you hear what I said?"

"I heard you fine." Jon's looking him in the eye, quiet but immovable. "I want to see you, I don't want you to miss an event you want to go to. We can go together."

Martin hesitates. "Gertrude might be there," he says. "Won't blame you at all if you'd rather not see her."

Jon shrugs. "She was trying to protect others in the scene. I can appreciate that." 

There are other objections Martin could raise, but he has to trust Jon to know his own mind. So he says, "Fine, but if you're uncomfortable, we're leaving. Promise you'll tell me."

Jon gives him a small, genuine smile. "I promise."

At the munch, Jon doesn't say much. He raises an unimpressed eyebrow to Gerry greeting him with, "So you are real! I was starting to think Martin invented you."

"Told you," Sasha says, smug. 

For the rest of the evening, Jon is right there next to him. He seems uncomfortable -- stiff as a board, if Martin's honest -- but every time Martin darts a concerned look at him, Jon nods at him, almost imperceptible. 

"Alright," Martin says, as they take the tube back to Jon's flat, "Don't spare me, how bad was it?"

"It wasn't."

Martin stares at him, unimpressed. "I could see your face, you know."

But Jon insists: "It wasn't. You were there. It can't be bad if you're there."

How does Jon do this to him, make his heart feel fit to burst with a few innocuous words? Martin looks at Jon's form, still held back and away from the world. Instead of offering a hug, he raises to fingers to his own lips and blows a kiss at Jon. 

Jon smiles at him, wraps his arms around himself, and mouths, " _Hug_ ," at Martin. God knows what the other passengers in their car are thinking; God knows Martin doesn't care.


	3. Chapter 3

"And though you come to me with open arms," Martin says under his breath, trying to catch the words before they escape, "and give to me--"

"Martin?" Jon's voice is groggy.

Martin flinches. "Right, sorry." He bids the rest of that sentence, whatever it was, goodbye.

But Jon frowns at him and says, "Could you say that a little louder, please? I want to hear."

Martin swallows. To his gratitude, the words are still there where he can grasp them. "Um." He closes his eyes.

"With all your beauty, hurt remains within.  
Although you come to me with open arms   
And give me every wonder that you are   
I cannot help but name your every scar   
To list it in your history of harms.   
Perhaps, instead, I'll count each as a star,  
To chart a constellation in your skin."  
  
Martin is blushing when he finally opens his eyes again. He clears his throat. "Sorry, I know it's a bit over the top--"

"It's lovely."

Martin blinks.

A strange, fervent expression has taken over Jon's face. "I. I think this is meant to be about me?"

Martin lets out an exasperated huff. "Yes, Jon, it's about you. Who did you think? The other tragically handsome man I'm in love with?"

A furrow appears in Jon's brow. "I'm not handsome."

"Keep telling yourself that. It'll be false, but you can do that."

Jon shakes his head, as if to banish a thought. "The poems you write..." he hesitates. "They feel like you're reaching inside my chest. Not to pluck my heart out, though, just sort of... hold it where it is." He looks in alarm. "Martin?"

"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about my poetry," he says, voice thick. "Sorry, I'll get a handle on myself in a moment."

Gently, Jon says, "You don't have to." He scoots a tiny bit closer: they're still not touching, but now Martin can feel the warmth of him. "Tell me another one?"

Martin swallows, and casts about his mind. He's not sure what comes out, exactly; all his focus is on Jon, listening with glittering eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

On Martin's lunch break, he reaches into his backpack looking for his lunch, and frowns when a cursory rummage reveals something larger than the box he remembers packing.

He takes it out. It's a fancy purple box, divided into little cells. Martin is dead certain he does not own anything like it. It takes him a moment to understand how to open it. One compartment has two sandwiches cut into triangles, which inspection reveals as containing mozzarella, tomato and basil on crusty sourdough. Another compartment contains carrot and cucumber sticks; another, cherries. There's a piece of paper sellotaped to one of the dividers, carefully placed so as not to touch any of the food.

Martin picks it out. It says, _A good day, and an extra hug if you'd like one,_ in Jon's spiky handwriting. He closes his eyes briefly, and takes out his phone to message Jon _thank you_ and a string of heart emojis.

Jon texts back immediately. _Is it alright? I tried to pick things I know you like, but I'm worried it's not calorically dense enough to get you through a shift. The lunch you packed should still be there, in any case._

 _its lovely. thank you._ Martin shakes his head and laughs silently, not sure why he feels like he's going to cry if he doesn't.


	5. Chapter 5

Jon's flat is empty when Martin enters, as he knew it would be. Martin hangs his coat slowly. He checks his phone again. The message from Jon says the same: _Georgie needs me to run an urgent errand. I'm sorry. I don't know when I'll be back; feel free to stay as long or as little as you'd like._

Despite the lump of disappointment in Martin's throat, he chuckles. Jon is the only person he knows who'd use a semicolon in a text. 

He ought to stay positive. Jon's flat, at least, is a nice and quiet place to study. Martin ambles towards the sofa. Before he can sit down, he's brought to a halt by an unusual sight. A pile of blankets takes up the sofa's middle seat. Odd, and unlike Jon, who is tidy to a fault. 

There's a note on the coffee table. Martin approaches and picks it up.

_The flat's a little chilly. I put a hot water bottle inside the blankets. Make yourself comfortable._ No signature. It's not necessary. 

Well. Jon's right that the temperature is dipping, and slipping under warm blankets seems like a very nice prospect. Martin insinuates himself between the blankets, then stills. He brings up the blanket at the bottom of the pile, worn purple fleece. He sniffs it tentatively, sighs, and takes a deeper breath.

Jon's blanket, the one he used to wrap himself in before Martin gave him the heavy blanket. Jon's scent is embedded in it from years of use. It is soft against Martin's cheek. Martin hesitates, then he wraps himself in it and lies down with the hot water bottle on his belly. The weight and the focussed heat are good, calming.

He'll just lay down his head, Martin decides. Just for a minute, ensconced in the cosy nest Jon left here to keep him warm.


	6. Chapter 6

Martin comes back into awareness gradually, first noting the warm weight on top of him. He opens his eyes and sees hair. A lot of hair.

He shakes his head a bit, pushing the hair away, revealing half-shut dark eyes. "Sorry," Jon mutters. "Should have asked." 

"You know you're always welcome to touch me." Affection swells inside Martin. "D'you want to go lie in bed? We'll have more room there." 

"Comfy," Jon complains, but he acquiesces, grabbing the purple fleece blanket. He is half-draped on Martin all the way to the bed. Once in it, Jon sets about arranging a nest of beddings, finally installing himself in it. He opens his arms and makes impatient grabby hands at Martin, who can't hold back a laugh. 

"I'm coming, I'm coming."

He settles himself with care, making certain Jon can have his own space. 

Jon doesn't like this. His expression might have been called a pout on a lesser man. "No, here," he says, patting his nest. "Come close."

It's everything Martin wants, and he hesitates.

Jon catches onto that, sobering. "You don't have to."

"I want to," Martin says, voice thickening. "But if you'll need to stop I'll probably start crying."

A moment of silence passes, and Jon says, "You already are."

"Oh." Martin swipes at the wetness on his face. "Sorry."

For once, Jon doesn't tell him not to apologize. He simply opens his arms, which have gone lax. "You may as well come here, then, if you're crying anyway. I promise, if I need to stop, I'll say so."

Martin can't fault his logic. He buries his face in Jon's shoulder, mumbles tiny _I love you_ s under his breath. Jon's fingers scratch his scalp gently, then not so gently, and Martin allows himself to become lost in the sensation.

"Why are emotions so much?" Jon mutters. "Our brains should come with dials."

There might be actual mental exercises to work on that, but now's not the time to discuss it. Martin asks permission and rubs his cheek against Jon's chest, letting out happy little hums. 

For once, Jon falls asleep first. Martin follows not too far behind, half marvelling at being able to fall asleep; at the certainty that he can spare these moments in Jon's arms to unconsciousness, because he will have more, Jon will _give_ him more, in ways Martin doesn't even expect.


End file.
